The Corfu Affair - Phillifent John T. (серии книг читать бесплатно .txt) 📗
Solo reeled away, slammed into the wall, staggered forward and right into a left fist that came down like a hammer on the top of his head.
The room grew a big black hole and he fell into it head first. The Countess came to stand and stare down at the ruin.
"A valiant one. Clever, too. I can use one such." She turned to her servant, who was not even out of breath, and smiled, pointing down. "Bring him!" She moved away to gather up her discarded dress and looped it carelessly over one arm, then she preceded her servant through the secret door and into the passage there. Adam crouched, picked up Solo like a sack, hung him over one shoulder, and followed her, drawing the dressing-table flush to the wall as he went.
In the tower-room at the other end of the passage, Katherine Winter put down her pen, lit a cigarette and leaned back to let her mind have its own way with the vexing problem of Mr. Nathan Summers. She was in the middle of her weekly letter to Uncle Otto, a rambling and inane epistle, mostly gossip and trivia, but which contained full descriptive details of everyone who had visited the Argyr Palace that week. It was her report, and Uncle Otto was no relative at all, but an elderly, ruddy-faced military gentleman who would skip all the banalities, but who would be very careful to list all the personalities and arrange to have them investigated. So she had been told.
The gentleman had approached her immediately after she had secured the job with the Countess. He had been very polite and laden with official documents to prove his authority. She believed he was C.I.A. but had not enquired too deeply about this. On his advice, it was better for her to know as little possible, thus making it impossible for her to give anything away, even by accident. All he wanted, and he was careful to stress this, was the name, nationality and time of arrival and departure of any guests. She was to supply these in the weekly letter. And do nothing more. At all.
From which facts Kate had gathered that she was involved in something very dangerous. She had been unwilling to help, but was at last persuaded because of the thrills involved. And the extra income.
But thrills had not come. Instead, the chore had grown dull. Guests came, usually by sea. They were odd, often. Usually they stayed overnight. Always they departed secretly, and she never saw them go. But that was all. And when Madame was in Paris, which could have been a bit more lively, the letter wasn't needed. Seemingly, Uncle Otto had other eyes for that period.
So the task had become dull, until now, with the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Summers, who wasn't a bit like the rest. Kate sighed, reached for her pen again. Mr. Summers was different and, for a while, she had hoped something might come of it. Corfu was a pleasant place, better if you could share it with the right kind of company. But Madame had flaunted her figure, flashed her eyes, turned on the charm, and that was the end of any hope Kate might have of getting to know Mr. Summers any better. Honestly, these French women! No delicacy at all! She sighed again, and began laboriously to write out the details.
Napoleon Solo struggled back to consciousness under the impression that his head was loose. He shook it to make sure, and the instant agony that came made him decide, firmly, not to do anything like that again for a long time. Levering his eyes open and focusing them against a strong glare, he saw he was looking along the top of a polished table littered with glasses and bottles. Beyond them, gradually hardening into outline and detail, he saw Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis. She watched him in calm appraisal, almost approval.
Easing back gingerly, he realized he was sitting in those stall chairs again, but this one had improvements in the shape of a pair of chrome-steel bands that folded out from the armrests to pinion his wrists. He tried to stir his feet and assured himself there were more fetters on his ankles. He was caught. Moving his head carefully, he saw that Thrush was in full attendance, four pairs of eyes being steadily fixed on him.
He forced his face into a thin smile, looked back to the Countess, and revised his opinion of her. She was still beautiful, but now he saw her beauty as the coiled deadliness of a lethal snake.
"Welcome, M. Solo," she said, with crisp assurance. The use of his name served to shock some of the fog from his mind.
"Some mistake," he muttered, after a false start or two. The inside of his mouth had been scrubbed with a coarse brush or wire wool. It took some effort to make it work. He swallowed. "Mistake. My name is Summers."
"Let us not waste time. I knew you from the first moment I saw you in my telescope. For years I have maintained a comprehensive file, with photographs and descriptions, of all the more active agents of U.N.C.L.E. You are Napoleon Solo, n'est ce pas?" She laughed, cast a flashing eye on her uneasy audience. "I am flattered that U.N.C.L.E. should this time send its best man. For me, M. Stanton was old. Easy. I dealt with him. I shall also deal with you, only better this time."
"You will kill him," Morales pronounced, with no question in his tone.
"Oh no, senor. That would be waste. I will use him."
"Good!" Klasser grunted. "That is the better way. Good specimens are not easy to get. May we observe?"
"But of course. That is my purpose, as you shall see." She turned her burning stare on Solo again. "You have been disarmed, and all your toys removed. If you try anything foolish one of my friends will kill you, and that would be unfortunate. But, if you are prepared to be sensible, I will free one of your hands, so that you may join us in a glass of this wine—and listen while we talk. Choose!"
"I could use a drink," he admitted, and she rose, moved away to a far corner where she must have operated a switch of some kind, for the cuff slid back from his left wrist. Then she came near, filled a glass and put it within his reach. Then she went back to her seat, but remained standing.
Watching her, it took him a moment or two to convince himself that he was not dreaming, that he had not slipped back three thousand years of time. She had caught back her black hair with a white band of silk. Her only clothing was a similar white silk, a simple garment that started from a silver brooch at her right shoulder and hung straight as far as mid-thigh, all in one piece, with just a hole for her arm, on the right side. On the left it swooped away from her shoulder to her left hip, leaving her left shoulder and breast uncovered, and from hip to hem it was loosely laced with a cord that ended in a fringe-tassel. The whole was genuine Ancient Greek, not the modernized compromise, and like the ancients, it was all she wore. Then his eye caught and fixed on the one jarring note, the metal bangle and strange attachments that hung from her right wrist.
"Now!" she said, in the tone of a queen addressing a cabinet. "You will have heard rumors, stories, hints. On the strength of those you are here, believing or not. Now you will hear, and see, the truth. You have heard me talk about health and beauty. You have seen my statues. You think I am, perhaps, something of a fanatic. Perhaps I am, you shall see. But I ask you to think of this. The glorious Greeks said MENS SANA IN CORPORE SANO. We say that a healthy body and a healthy mind go together. Perhaps it is true. But what is a healthy body, a healthy mind? How do you define these? Years ago I decided to take a position that no one can argue. A perfect body, this can be defined. A perfect body is a body without flaw, yes? And—a perfect mind is a mind without thought!"
